Why I Love The Trials

There's no track meet in the world like the U.S. Olympic Trials. They are a patriotic pageant, an eight-day celebration of the abundant talent produced by the greatest track-and-field nation in the world, further enriched by the crush of thousands of loyal spectators. The Trials are also ruthlessly uncompromising in their commitment to competitive success. No watered-down "everyone's a winner" in Eugene these next two weeks. The selection system is merciless in its justice: The first three winners in each event go to Beijing. Fourth is nowhere. No exceptions, no argument.

For the athletes, the Trials are like a medieval jousting tournament. Succeed and you are a knight, forever an Olympian, honored and admired. Fail and you're rusting metal. The fans want the best American team going to the Games this summer, but they want that team selected in a fair, democratic, American way. We love the festival of excellence, the opportunity for all to succeed—and the drama of shattered dreams.

I look no further for testament to this dual appeal than the 1984 Trials in Los Angeles and the memorable finish of the women's 100-meter hurdles. There they were, four leaders sprawled across the line together in the blink of the eye; we in the Coliseum stands rose to our feet in disbelief. For 20 minutes we watched the finish replay over and over on the giant scoreboard as we waited for the judges to announce the winners. I have watched the video many times since, and even now I cannot be sure which three women should have gone to the Olympics—and which one should have stayed home.

For the record, Kim Turner, Benita Fitzgerald-Brown, and Pam Page qualified. Shut out was Stephanie Hightower, the American record holder who lost her previous Olympic opportunity when the United States boycotted the 1980 Games in Moscow. Hightower was one of the greatest hurdlers of her era, but she was never an Olympian.

Such reversals of fortune are the essence of the Olympic Trials. They are a series of roller-coaster dramas, with story after story unfolding before your eyes to thrill you, inspire you, and break your heart. America's sudden-death system was new to me when I saw my first Trials in 1984. A latecomer to the United States, I was used to British and New Zealand sporting cultures, where selectors from national sports federations reign supreme and the selection process is often political. I found the American arrangement of a once-off trial to be fair—and addictive. It produces an astonishing sense of community and shared purpose. "Eight days of fellowship" is how Bill Roe, president of USA Track & Field, describes the Trials.

One reason for this charged atmosphere is, of course, the fans, who in their own way are as elite as the athletes. At the Olympics, glamour-seeking tourists and inquisitive locals fill the stands. At the Trials, every seat is held by a track fiend; they know this sport and they suffer for it. In Indianapolis in 1988, we were alternately fried by the scorching heat and drenched by torrents of rain. In the stifling heat of New Orleans in 1992, we carried bags of ice on which to rest our feet. Even where sightlines are patchy, as at Sacramento in 2000 and 2004, the crowd is liable to enact that strange track-fan ritual where, whenever a race gets really exciting, everyone stands up at once so that no one can see. Thanks to the sudden wall of fans that sprang up in front of me in 2000, I saw almost nothing of the infamous 200 meters final when, after a week of hype, Maurice Greene and Michael Johnson both pulled up injured.

Yet we return, all day, every day for eight days, because there's nothing else like it in track. You get to know the fans around you, and the athletes become almost like family. "The intimacy makes it more enjoyable than the Olympics," says Greg Vitiello, a Trials connoisseur since 1964 and a historical consultant to the USATF Hall of Fame. "We stay among the athletes, ride buses with them, see them in restaurants. In the stadium, we know them—we root for our favorites and applaud upset winners. This isn't chauvinism. It really is familiarity."

It's also an opportunity to truly share the highs and lows. When Butch Reynolds's drug suspension was lifted in '92, we celebrated with him, we were with him every step of the way for three rounds, and when he faded in the final it felt as tragic as the last act of King Lear. We suffered with Vicki Huber when she melted down in the 3000 in '96, then exulted when she came back to make the 1500 team. And when Dan O'Brien failed to clear the decathlon pole vault in New Orleans and we realized he would not even go to the Barcelona Games, I suddenly felt a chill, even though it was almost too hot to breathe.

The Olympic Trials are made up of fascinating paradoxes. They are a national championship and a family reunion. They are spectacular, yet intimate; world-class, yet local. That strikes me as a distinctly American combination. The reunion aspect creates an outlet for nostalgia, yet the Trials exist only for the future—an audition for another track meet just weeks away, the biggest one on the world stage. One more paradox: Like baseball fans, those here are fervent team supporters—but there is only one team and it hasn't yet been selected.

The one-two-three selection process is cold-blooded but utterly fair. Established in 1968, it replaced more complex discretionary arrangements. "We were tired of backroom politics," says Roe. Understandable. Yet the finality of the Trials imposes a stress on the athletes that must be almost unbearable. If it's any consolation, I've experienced less transparent systems that create even worse stress, because they're more prolonged and the criteria are less clear. In New Zealand, the athlete often strives all season to impress two sets of selectors, never knowing if he or she has done enough while also fearing that a new rival may emerge. The American system requires the athlete to plan, peak, and perform. Those are proper Olympic virtues.

Carl Lewis exemplified the do-or-die approach in 1988, when a storm lashed the men's long jump. On the runway he stood almost obscured, while in the crowd we were soaked and cowering as the rain pelted the stadium. Then he sprinted down the lane, every stride splashing, and cleared 28 feet to surpass Larry Myricks. "He could have asked for a postponement, but that jump proved Lewis was no prima donna," recalls Dan Gonzalez, who hasn't missed the Trials since 1984 (and has also run 27 Boston Marathons since 1975).

The stakes are high, and the emotions are, too. Jackie Joyner-Kersee, jubilant after breaking the world heptathlon record at the '88 Trials, heard during her press conference that her brother Al Joyner, the reigning Olympic champion, hadn't made the triple jump team and she burst into tears. There was also the stridently supportive mother of a 10,000-meter runner, attending her first track meet. Her son had told her he would make his move at the halfway point, and she kept asking everyone around her when it would come. But he dropped back, and her cheers turned to a despair that deepened with every lap, until she was sobbing. "Eventually, her son's coach came up and put his arm round her—the nicest thing I've ever seen at the Trials," says Jane Vitiello, a New York author and lifelong track fan.

The fates also play their part. High jumpers miss the cut on count-backs, hurdlers on crashes, distance runners on humidity. Triple jumper Mike Conley lost an Olympic spot in '88 because the dangling edge of his shorts scuffed the sand as he landed.

As a historian of the sport, I can see the beginnings of this dual tradition of excellence and drama dating as far back as 1908, when there was no national meet and the team was composed entirely of athletes from New York, Philadelphia, Boston, and Chicago. The first time that athletes from all over America tried out for the Olympics was in 1912, when three separate cities hosted meets. At each meet, the athletes put the world record book through the shredder, to the delight of ecstatically cheering crowds.

For a complete mix of triumphs and tragedies, few Trials can match 1936 on Randall's Island in New York City, one of the greatest track meets ever held on American soil. Cornelius Johnson broke the world high-jump record of 6' 9", but Mel Walker missed the cut after almost clearing that same height a week earlier. In the 1500, Glenn Cunningham ran 3:49.9, close to the world record owned by Bill Bonthron, who was shunted back to fourth. Jesse Owens in the sprints and long jump was as silkily supreme as legend enshrines him. But Eulace Peacock, who had beaten Owens three times out of five in 1935, was injured and eliminated in round one.

Of course, there are no feel-good guarantees at such a grueling competition. But stories of remarkable comebacks abound. In 1948, Harrison Dillard, the dominant highhurdler of his day, crashed three hurdles and didn't make the cut. He did, however, earn a place on the 100 meters team and win gold in that event at the London Olympics. (In 1952, he returned to capture the gold he had coveted in the hurdles.) Conley of the flapping shorts also came back to win gold in 1992. Hightower is now an esteemed administrator in the sport she loves, despite coming up short in her Olympic quest—proof that some tragedies at the Olympic Trials do have happy endings.

That's another reason why I enjoy them so much.

Roger RobinsonRoger Robinson ran for England and New Zealand at world level, and set masters marathon records at Boston and New York, with a best of 2:18:44, at age 41.

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